


Seraglio

by Hannigrammatic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Crossdressing, First Meetings, First Time, Foreplay, M/M, Pole Dancing, Rimming, Virgin Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-25 20:33:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6209083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannigrammatic/pseuds/Hannigrammatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There he is.</p><p>Will almost freezes. It’s only the second time that he’s seen this particular man, sitting closer to the back than the others. He’s dressed sharp, hair slicked neatly over his head, collar undone and opened to reveal the beginnings of his chest. His tie is on the table in front of him, next to his third glass of scotch. The first time, he didn’t seem interested -in the crowd, in the dancers, any of it, and it made Will wonder why he bothered. But here he is once more, and his eyes are fixated on Will as if his dance has breathed life into an otherwise deadness that seemed to be a part of this mysterious man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dazzle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WarpedChyld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarpedChyld/gifts).



> Thank you [Warpedchyld](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WarpedChyld/profile) for the title! 
> 
> And for the chance to scream about dear Will and Hanni in our chats ♥
> 
> I AM GLAD THAT WE CAN SIN TOGETHER.

He decides to go by ‘Willow’ for a while. Eventually it ends up as ‘Willain’, a mild butchery of his real name, but it sounds pretty and ambiguous, a neutral name that his colleagues pick up on quickly.

The wig is new, blackest of black and streaked with navy blue, and it’s straight. When he tucks his curly brown hair up beneath it and smoothes it onto his head, he works on fluffing the soft locks up until they fall over his back and shoulders in a voluminous, careful mess. The backroom isn’t very packed, the other dancers out on the floor or the pole, and the one or two others here getting ready are quiet, like Will. He’s shaved just hours before, his jawline sharp and smooth. The coverup goes on first, a shade paler than he actually is, and then dark mascara after a thick layer of black eyeliner. 

Tonight he feels neutral, the usual anxiety still lingering in his stomach, sure; mostly he’s just focusing on his routine, going over the choreography in his mind. He’ll be on the pole tonight, and he’s got his thigh-high boots already strapped and buckled, the ones with the flat, blunt heel -not too rickety to dance in, a solid line for the exertion he would be undergoing. A lot of people don’t realize just how much energy and strength is required to work the pole, or to dance for hours on end in general. Add to that the weight of wigs (or natural hair, of course), and it’s just another reason to sweat, sweat, sweat. His makeup is top quality, however, and he’s an expert at not smudging it unless it’s deliberate and part of his show. His lipstick is royal blue, lined in black, and his eyeshadow is a shade lighter than the streaks in his hair. He smoothes a layer of pink blush onto his cheeks with a brush, and then ascertains that there’s no obvious line to show where the makeup starts and ends, drawing the long strands of the wig into his face. 

Last, he puts in his colored contacts, the ones that make his eyes ultra-violet, pupils slitted like a cat. He stands from the leather stool and reaches for the corset, all black, a gorgeous piece with ruffles along the bottom and stitched into the soft curves that sat over his pecs when got himself into it. 

“You need some help, dear?” a soft voice asks.

“Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind,” Will nods, hair falling into his face.

He looks into the mirror as his coworker pulls the corset tight and does it up for him. He’s not Will anymore, he’s Willain. He’s a creature of the night, slipping on a pair of claw-tipped gloves that reach well past his elbows. The leather shorties he’s already slipped on before the boots, complete his ensemble, that of the stranger in the mirror. Will thanks the other, glances at the crooked clock on the wall in the dimly lit dressing room, and then swipes the silken smooth scarf that lay folded neatly on the desk he’d previously sat at.

It’s time.

♥

The floor is lit by a track of bright LED lights, outlining the stages. There’s four of them, two with poles, two without. Will strides over to the last one, the pole high, reaching into the ceiling and reinforced there. At the bottom of it, there’s a dazzling display of fake gems, glued into a glittering stand that exists for show, so that the non-descript metal pole isn’t bare and boring. Will’s happy there are no lights on his -sometimes they add those to make the place extra-flashy, mostly around the winter holidays, a string of red and green lights braided garishly around it. 

He struts onto the stage as the day fades away entirely, his boring teaching job the farthest thing from his mind. He grasps the pole and swings around it in a simple movement, noting the exact second the spotlight focused on him as the last performer left the stage next to his.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our sultry veteran dancer, Willain,” an overly seductive voice introduces him, and he’s in the zone now.

His song tonight is _Angel_ by Space Waltz. It’s a jaunty song, and he twitches his hips in time with the beat, circling the pole and ending up facing the crowd, who is faceless, to him, a beast of the night with claws bared. He throws his head back and bares the bit of of his neck that isn’t bound with his lucky scarf, arms twining upwards, claws tip-tapping along the metal surface as he pauses for a heartbeat. He is the music, and he is the movements that follow, a streak of lightning grounded and contained; the lyrics bleed into his ears and translate into undulating hips, sharp turns, and when it ends, when the song’s amalgamation of guitars, drums, pianos, and the singer’s heartfelt, stretched voice fades, his back is to the audience. He looks over his shoulders, hair in his face, and opens his lips in a sigh that no one hears.

There he is.

Will almost freezes. It’s only the second time that he’s seen this particular man, sitting closer to the back than the others. He’s dressed sharp, hair slicked neatly over his head, collar undone and opened to reveal the beginnings of his chest. His tie is on the table in front of him, next to his third glass of scotch. The first time, he didn’t seem interested -in the crowd, in the dancers, any of it, and it made Will wonder why he bothered. But here he is once more, and his eyes are fixated on Will as if his dance has breathed life into an otherwise deadness that seemed to be a part of this mysterious man. Will flutters his lashes, dips his tongue out between his lips, and then looks away from a gaze that is intense and singularly focused. He’s left feeling empty somehow, that, and unnerved in a very deep part inside of him.

♥

The man’s name is Hannibal Lecter. Will nearly collides with him outside of the club, and his heart makes an effort to jump out of his mouth.

Will prefers to take the back door when he leaves, easing out into the alleyway there, no longer a svelte creature of piercing inhuman eyes and strong legs encased in gleaming leather; no longer that animal that became music and the physical representation of it, quivering under the strobes and the LEDs, wrapping around the pole as if it were an extension of him. Now, he is William Graham, teacher, dressed in an old pair of jeans and a black, loose jacket. The makeup is gone, and his glasses are perched on his nose, curly hair a mess around his face. In the week before his next shift, he’ll grow in his usual coarse stubble, but for now his face is pale and bare, and it shows his shock clearly.

“What the fuck, man?” he shouts, jumping back as a figure steps into his path almost immediately.

The door is just closing behind him, and he has half a mind to reach for it. Before the gut-sinking feeling of danger takes hold, however, recognition seeps in, and he looks at the man from the club, the Three-Scotch Tie-Undone piece with the searing eyes. Up close, under the unforgiving light behind the club, his eyes are light brown. Before, they had been closer to red, flashing in the shifting lights.

“My apologies,” his voice is deep, a timbre that vibrates into Will’s ears pleasantly. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

“Well, waiting outside in an alley isn’t exactly the best way to avoid that,” Will says breathlessly -his heart is still hammering a staccato beat, and his fingers twitch nervously. 

“I am Hannibal Lecter,” the man says, as if he hasn’t heard Will’s words, as if he’s too distracted.

“Uhm. Will,” Will offers it hesitantly. “You want to tell me why you’re waiting back here like a creeper, Mister Lecter?”

Hannibal appears confused for a split second, before he casts an understanding gaze around the alley. He seems to think for a long time, not sluggish with alcohol, though. His feature are sharp and sober and entirely determined. 

“You look better like this,” the man says.

Will spends a longer amount of time considering the words. Finally, he also considers their meaning. He’s not upset at being seen as he truly is. His second job is less of a job than it is a release, a chance to become someone or something else entirely. Most wouldn’t be able to see him beside his alter-ego and realize that they were one and the same, however. He wonders how Hannibal knows, wonders why he’s truly out here behind the club -wonders about a lot of things. He opts for silence, however, digs his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and jerks his head slightly.

“Where’s your car?” Will asks before he can convince himself not to.

Hannibal’s eyes narrow. Will only now notices that the man’s tie is once more secured around his neck, collar folded neatly, suit impeccable. He looks wealthy, a man used to pleasantries and expensive cocktail parties. Will raises a single brow as he waits, knowing that Hannibal knows what he’s asking for, his pause a carefully planned response.

“No thank you,” Hannibal finally speaks. 

His expression borders on distasteful, and Will freezes, taken aback. Most of the dancers at this club didn’t go home with clients. It wasn’t a strip-joint, it was a moderate-class club with smooth music and a classy air of sexuality. That didn’t mean that they couldn’t go home with someone, however. Will never goes home with anyone, much less anyone connected to this job, and it isn’t out of embarrassment, really. He just prefers to keep his life separated into neat compartments is all. 

That, and most people ran away pretty fucking fast once they realized how boring he was outside of either of his places of work.

“Why the fuck are you out here waiting for me if you don’t want to take me home?” frustration makes Will’s voice come out hoarse.

“I wished simply to invite you to dinner,” the man says blankly.

“Oh.”

The response is unintelligent and conveys his confusion. Perhaps it is that that softens Hannibal’s expression, as the man stands up straighter and offers Will a card. It’s white, and it has his contact information, including his cellphone number, and Will accepts it wordlessly. Hannibal has given him a _business_ card, and it’s fucking fancy.

“Look, man,” Will begins. “I’m sorry for assuming-”

“Please,” long fingers are held into the air. “A mere misunderstanding.”

“Right,” Will huffs out a breath and goes quiet.

They’re both silent for a long moment, Will shuffling in place and avoiding the eyes that feel like they’re attempting to burn holes into his forehead. The light flooding the alley flickers, and Will jumps.

“I got to get home and feed my dog,” he announces suddenly.

“Of course,” another step back, prim and proper, shiny shoes clicking on the pavement. “Shall I expect your call?”

Will meets his eyes very briefly one last time, and nods stiffly.

“Yeah, sure. Goodnight, Mister Lecter.”

“And you, Will.”

On the bus home to his apartment, Will runs a finger along the embossed card, tracing Hannibal’s flourishing signature. He puts in his earbuds and listens to music as the streets pass by, and then jumps off the bus at his stop. He can’t stop thinking about the man, whose _‘You look better like this’_ should have been insulting but had instead filled Will with a curiosity that he rarely ever felt for others. He’s still thinking about that slicked-back hair, the strands that looked so soft, when he shoulders into his apartment after struggling with the lock. Winston barks once and patters out of the bedroom to greet him, bushy tail held high and wagging. 

“Hey, boy,” Will greets softly. “Have fun without me?”

Winston tilts his head and perks one of his ears curiously. He’s a mutt, fur fluffy and intermingled with different shades of brown. He’s got spots on his muzzle, and his eyes blink up at his master happily, tongue lolling out lazily. Will smiles and gets ready for bed, patting the blanket to beckon his dog once he’s settled. Before he falls asleep, cuddled close to his dog, Will looks at the card propped up near his alarm clock, a white patch that is blurry without his glasses.

He’s memorized every letter and number upon it already, anyway.


	2. Delicious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner and dessert, with a heaping spoonful of awkward, because Will is Will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is going to be longer than I thought, but only because I want the smut to be it's own chapter :D I like writing long smut scenes ♥
> 
> Not beta read!
> 
> NOTE: Sorry for the lateness! Stardew Valley has apparently captured my entire existence and trapped it within adorable farming pixels... ♥

Will has been on his fair share of dates, each and every one of them a disaster in their own way. He can count on one hand the amount of times he’s gone home after meeting someone for dinner _not_ feeling left out or rejected. He knows it’s one of those don’t judge the book by its cover things, that a lot of his social circle comes from his weekend job as a dancer; people are left rather confused when the luscious creature in leather thigh-highs turns out to be a teacher, a scruffy one at that, a man who avoids eye contact unless he’s behind a layer of makeup. He’s sitting on his bed, having just woken up and showered. The coffee machine is click-dripping away in the kitchen, and in an hour he’ll be at work behind his desk teaching. 

Slipping on his glasses, he looks at the business card resting in its spot on his desk, and from there, he eyes his cellphone, sitting innocuously on the window sill: it’s been four days since he met Hannibal Lecter, and he’s procrastinated calling the man with the intense eyes over and over. The morning he woke up after the night in the alley, his hand had already been reaching for his phone, but Will had stopped himself. He’s never been on a date with a man before, not one that had the potential to be more than two seconds at bar before sanity kicked in for the other party. Despite his nerves, however, he has a feeling that Hannibal is different, and that he’ll treat him well -and who is Will to turn down a free meal?

♥

At lunch break, Will sits at his desk, the classroom empty, chewing on the club sandwich he’d picked up at the store across the street. He’s spinning the cellphone around and around on the hard surface, knee jumping up and down anxiously, and by the twentieth spin, he finally steels himself and dials Hannibal’s number before he can convince himself to put it off once more.

“Hello, this is Hannibal Lecter speaking,” that smooth voice soothes Will’s nerves like lukewarm lotion being rubbed right into his skin. 

“Yeah, Mister Lecter, it’s Will,” _is my voice shaking? Oh god I hope not_.

“Will, I am delighted to hear from you. I confess I was beginning to think I wouldn’t receive your call,” Hannibal says the words with an undercurrent of delight.

“Just busy is all,” Will rolls his eyes at his excuse. “Uhm, so dinner?”

“Yes, how does tomorrow sound? Does six work for you?”

“That’s fine,” Will winces and barely refrains from slapping his palm into the middle of his forehead. “I’ll see you then.”

“I simply cannot wait,” the man on the other line says, and Will is happy Hannibal can’t see the blush that stains his cheeks suddenly. 

Hannibal gives him an address, which Will scribbles onto a sheet of looseleaf and tucks away into his pocket. He’s vaguely familiar with the city, knows the place is in the better part, _the rich part_. He thinks about Hannibal and his accent, pays more attention to that than his teaching, and by the time he’s packing his papers into his messenger bag and clopping out of the high school, he’s managed to work himself into quite a tiffy over what to wear tomorrow. His most expensive articles of clothing are his dance getups, of course -and he’s not about to show up at the man’s house as Willain, unless Hannibal had a pole he could dance on. _Oh hell_ , Will turns crimson as he’s sitting on the bus on the way home, and the woman next to him looks at him strangely, before standing at the next convenient time to sit elsewhere.

Will still feels warm even as he locks his door behind him and drops his bag onto the floor, stumbling into his bedroom and falling face first onto his bed with a loud groan. The sound of complaint prompts Winston to jump on him with a whine, snuffling behind his ears and bathing his neck in dog saliva.

“Winston, stop,” Will grumbles and bats at the canine halfheartedly. “Ughhh, fine!”

He rolls over and accepts an armful of dog, rubbing Winston’s sides and scratching behind his ears. He’s a little heavy since he’s medium-sized and well fed, but Will bears the weight happily, eventually falling asleep curled up around soft fur with a cold, wet nose pressed into his neck.

♥

Will stops outside of Hannibal’s home and looks up at the towering building. He’s not sure what he expected, but at least the architecture is elegant without being too boastful. He has a deep-seated resentment for the rich, no matter how comfortable his life is or is not, and he tries to tamper that down when he strolls up to the front door to ring the bell.

“Will, welcome,” Hannibal opens the large oak door on the first ring, stepping back with one arm held out gracefully.

The foyer is dim, and as Will steps in further, his eyebrows raise near to his hairline at Hannibal’s taste in decor. He’s not even certain how he would describe the mishmash of animal bones and antiques that appear to make up the design, and he stops thinking about it promptly when he feels warm fingers dancing along his shoulders.

“Hi,” Will greets with a jump. “What are you doing?”

“Taking your jacket,” Hannibal raises one pale brow.

“Oh, right, thanks. I mean thank you.”

 _Jesus_. Will really hopes that this man isn’t looking for grace and swaying hips, because he’s got none of that going on tonight. He lets the man take his jacket and waits awkwardly as it’s hung up on a peg by the door, and then follows behind him quietly further into the house. It then that Will realizes that Hannibal is wearing a three-piece suit tailored to fit his figure like a second skin, and his eyes zero in on the man’s ass like a moth to flame, and then he’s fighting the blush that he can feel tickling his skin.

“Are you alright?” Hannibal asks concernedly.

“I’m great,” Will hopes his face isn’t as red as it feels. “Uh, long day. Just a little beat is all.”

“Fair enough. I hope that you will feel more relaxed after dinner. A full belly can do wonders for the soul, as it were.”

Will nods and is lead to a dining room that is massive, the table in the center joined by several chairs. On the wall nearby are rows of herbs, and the air is filled with their mingling smells as Hannibal pulls out a chair for him. In the end, after much deliberation and one-sided conversations with Winston, he’d gone for the baby blue dress-shirt and black slacks combo, with his best jacket, which was still rather threadbare -he feels good, though, physically. Of course he’s nervous about impressions, but he’s glad that Hannibal has made no comment on his simple style, and the fact that his hair remains an untamed mess.

In the end, he doesn’t feel too out of place in the dining room despite the ominous decor, horns bracketing a painting of _Leda and the Swan_ that sits above a crackling fireplace. However, the placemat set before him looks like it’s lined in gold, and there’s more silverware than he is accustomed to folded into a cloth napkin.

“Lamb chops in a balsamic reduction, with grilled Portobellos sauteed in wine,” Hannibal announces as he walks in with two plates.

Will’s dish is set before him first, and then Hannibal takes his seat at the head of the table, directly to the young man’s left side. There’s a classical piece playing from the other room, a soothing melody that wafts between them as wine is poured into crystal glasses and utensils are drawn out of their fabric homes. The food is delicious, the meat meltingly good and the mushrooms savory, but truthfully, Will is focused entirely on Hannibal despite the lack of discussion. Under the dim lighting, he looks impossibly soft, even with his sharp cheekbones and his strong features. Will is pretty certain he could spend hours poring over the physical entity of Hannibal Lecter, and even longer over those eyes, whose depths are endless and shaded, mysterious with a dash of potential reveal.

“This is delicious,” Will comments, unable to stand the silence any longer -it’s not grating or uncomfortable, at least, just pregnant with so many possibilities that he’s anxious to wade into.

Hannibal swallows a bite of mushroom and lamb, wiping daintily at his lips before speaking. “I’m glad that you are enjoying it. I’m also glad that you’ve joined me tonight.”

“Me too,” and here Will pauses to wipe at his face, mourning for the cloth napkin that probably costs more than his rent.

They finish their dinner, but with one long finger held in the air, Hannibal gestures for him to wait while he lifts the plates and walks back into the kitchen, his step possessing a bounce that Will definitely doesn’t notice, just as he doesn’t check out the man’s ass once more. In the silence as he waits, Will scrubs a hand back through his hair and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s so nervous that he’s honestly rather proud of himself for not floundering under Hannibal’s attention.

“I hope you have room for dessert, dear Will,” the man returns with two more plates, different ones this time.

They’re smaller, almost dainty, and in the center of each there is a slab of chocolate cake with a light dusting of icing sugar. Will is full from the dinner itself, but his eyes are bright when Hannibal sets his plate before him and he gets a whiff of the sweet treat. When his host is sitting once more, Will follows his cue and slices the side of his fork into the side of the cake, mouth already opened at the sight of chocolate oozing out of the center.

“This looks amazing,” Will says softly.

“It tastes that way as well,” Hannibal responds with a smirk and eyes narrowed in pleasure. “Here.”

And the man leans towards Will with his own forkful of cake held aloft, and Will’s mouth is already open anyway, so he accepts the offering and closes his lips around the utensil. The taste is exquisite and moist, and he can’t help closing his eyes around the sensation and humming quietly.

“Wow,” he says after swallowing.

Hannibal raises a single brow, and his lips quirk upwards in something akin to a twitch. Will opens his eyes and finds the other’s flitting over him, a gaze that feels like a physical weight caressing his cheeks, jaw, neck. Will looks away with reddening skin.

“Did you invite me to dinner just to watch me eat your food?” he asks in a rush, wincing inwardly at how impolite it sounds.

It feels like he’s just taken his fork and sliced through the atmosphere instead, and the silence that follows his question lingers and grows, until Will feels a weight over his heart that he’s familiar with -he’s fucked up a good night, as he normally does on any sort of outing. He very nearly gets up to show himself out, going so far as to push his plate away before nudging his chair out across the hardwood floor.

“Finish your dessert,” Hannibal says quickly, no _commands_.

Will silently pulls the chair back, picks up the fork once more, and begins to eat. It’s no less delicious, of course, but there’s an awkwardness now that he’s certain he could drown in. He wishes he could tell just what it is that Hannibal wants from this night, even now that it’s going south, and settles for being comforted by the fact that at least the meal is fantastic and free. The soft music from the other room comes to a halt, and the only sound for a while is the tinkling sounds of them eating as their utensils tap against the glass plates. For drinks, there yet remains the decanter of wine, and Will notices that Hannibal has refilled his glass without any prompting necessary, so he takes a sip and swishes it around his mouth, lets the flavors of it and the cake mingle. All the while, he stares ahead and avoids looking at Hannibal’s face.

“When you dance, you are not yourself,” Hannibal says just then. “You are a vessel of confidence, a thing of beauty for eyes to feast upon. But you are not you.”

“That’s the point,” Will points out, and then he sighs loudly. “Sorry. I’m not trying to be rude, Mister Lecter.”

“Please, call me Hannibal.”

“Hannibal, then,” Will sets his fork down across his plate and sits back with a full belly. “I came here tonight because you interest me. But I can’t figure out why you invited me in the first place.”

“I wanted to know you,” Hannibal sits back as well and takes in the last mouthful of wine in his glass. “It seems we wanted the same thing.”

“So you invited me to dinner to get to know me?” 

It’s almost foreign to him. The whole wine and dine ordeal hasn’t been an integral part of humanity in his experience, unless fast food and a movie counted. It’s so old-fashioned sitting at a huge table with a home cooked feast, with wine that tastes as delicious as the rest, and he finds himself humbled, if still confused. 

“Yes, and to propose that you join me in my bed afterwards.”

“Oh.”

So there it is.


	3. Decadent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal takes good care of Will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to tease more because I'm a meanie apparently! :D One more chapter to go~
> 
> Not beta read~

Hannibal’s bedroom is elegant, not as over the top as the rest of his house. The colors are easy on the eyes, and the blanket looks softer than a cloud when Will allows himself to look at it. For a second he thinks back on their conversation over dinner, and he furrows his brows in confusion.

“If you wanted to take me to bed, why not just take me to bed?” he asks. “You looked so affronted when I initially implied that you do so.”

“I am a man of some sophistication,” Hannibal responds, and Will turns to face him, and immediately freezes.

Hannibal is unbuttoning his suit jacket slowly, leisurely, eyes hooded as they peer at Will in the soft light. Suddenly, the air feels painful trying to squeeze passed the pinhole that his throat has become.

“And yet you pick up dancers?” Will snorts.

“Dancer. You are the only one I’ve been compelled to know.”

It becomes easier to breathe because Hannibal’s words are altogether comforting and genuine. Will isn’t certain just how he knows that, but he does, and he goes with it as he contemplates what they are about to do. That makes everything spiral out of control once more, however.

“I’ve never had sex before,” he blurts out.

 _Welp, good job, Will_ , he winces inwardly and prepares for rejection or judgement.

“That is fine,” Hannibal moves closer in a few deliberately slow steps. “I will take good care of you.”

And that’s that. No snorts of laughter, no ridicule. Will is relieved and also suspicious, though not of Hannibal. He’s gone through life without having sex for a variety of reasons, most of them involving awkward timing, trust issues (his own, which were many), and the quite simple desire not to get naked and sweaty with just anyone. He can’t say that he trusts Hannibal, per se, since they’ve only just met -he does trust the man’s intentions, however. He knows it isn’t far from the truth at all to expect an elaborate breakfast in the morning, and he’s certain that Hannibal won’t tell him to leave after they’ve done the deed.

“You’ve done this before, then?” Will inquires. “With a man, I mean.”

“A very long time ago,” the man confesses. “A brief affair with a colleague.”

“Why brief?” 

“He was killed in a very tragic accident.”

“Oh,” Will trails off. 

Not exactly an attractive bedroom conversation, he realizes. He can feel his cheeks heating as he shuffles in place near the huge bed, eyes cast downwards now, flitting over Hannibal’s shoes and then away. He nearly jumps out of his skin when a soft hand cups the side of his clean shaven face, thumb trailing just beneath his cheekbone.

“Enough chatter, I think,” Hannibal whispers, close now, so close that Will almost goes cross-eyed trying to keep him in sight now that he’s within his boundaries. “May I undress you, Will?”

Will nods once, curtly, keeping his gaze pinned at Hannibal’s throat. He feels and sees within the periphery of his vision as long fingers trail away from his face and join the man’s other hand to undo the buttons on Will’s baby blue shirt, starting at the top and making their way down, where Hannibal untucks the garment from within his pants and then eases it over his shoulders and off of him. Next, the undershirt is rucked up, and then with a twitch, pulled over Will’s arms and discarded just as the other had been. Will jumps when he feels gentle weight settle at the waist of his pants.

“Wait,” he nearly shouts.

“Of course. Here, sit down instead. Please.”

The young man acquiesces, sitting on the edge of the bed and sighing at how he sank into the fluffy blankets, and he strokes his fingers nervously over the fabric as he tries to catch his breath once more. He knows without a doubt that if he were to say stop, they would stop, and that’s a huge comfort. But more than that, he _wants_ this, wants Hannibal to know him in every way imaginable, and it’s a truth that takes over him quite powerfully because he’s never wanted this before. At the club, the first time he noticed Hannibal, he’d known there was _something_ about him, something profoundly beautiful as well as mysterious. And the way he’d watched Willain dance had been with appreciation instead of entertainment or with overtly lewd intentions.

“Shall we stop?” Hannibal asks just then, as if he’d read Will’s mind.

“No,” Will very nearly snaps the word out. “No. Please.”

“Very well.”

♥

Will is slowly eased backwards onto the bed after his socks and shoes have been removed, and he goes without issue, sighing at the feeling of the blankets underneath him. This time, when Hannibal flicks the button on his pants, he doesn’t tense, not as much at least, even as they are tugged down his legs in a swift and smooth motion. His underwear remain, for now, as Hannibal begins to remove his own ensemble, shedding layers until he stands in a pair of black, close-fitting briefs. And is he ever a sight to feast upon then, all coiling muscles that Will is surprised to see, having not expected such by the shape of his suit. The man’s chest is broad and furry, a dense patch of hair traveling from chest to stomach, and then continuing beneath his belly button in a trail that disappears into his briefs.

“You’re beautiful,” Will sighs out, quite taken with the image before him -so much so that he speaks without even meaning to, and blushes as a result.

“Yes, you are,” Hannibal smirks and then climbs atop him.

It’s a slow descent, the other making his intentions apparent, until he is straddling Will’s waist, his hands planted on either side of his head. They’re lying horizontally across the bed, and Will finally allows himself to search for eye contact with his bedmate, finding brown eyes nearly black with dilated pupils, and carefully styled hair surrenders to gravity and falls over Hannibal’s brow to dust Will’s forehead as the man on top moves ever closer -and when they kiss, it’s with a tender heat, a firm pressing of lips with a hint of inquiry, the hand tangling into Will’s curls curious. Will _has_ kissed a person before, a young woman back in college, on a date that ended rather well for once: it just didn’t go anywhere when they both realized there wasn’t anything there for either of them. Will works with her now, at the club, a rather awkward reunion at first.

“You taste exquisite,” Hannibal purrs into his mouth after drawing away slightly. 

Will opens his mouth to respond and instead moans quietly when Hannibal slots his lips against the soft skin of his neck, mouthing at his pulse point and then suckling at it. His motions are firm with intention and yet not forceful as his mouth stops just above Will’s collarbones, tongue dipping into the divot there before trailing back upwards, along his throat and his twitching adam’s apple. Their lips meet once more in a wet dance, one as old as time and no less elegant. Will finally relents and buries his hands into Hannibal’s hair, gripping the downy locks and letting them slip between his fingers.

Hannibal moans into the kiss, mimicking him and gripping Will’s curly brown hair almost hard, with passion instead of roughness, and when they draw away this time, it is to breathe each other’s air and marvel at their closeness, physical and emotional. Will feels like there’s much more going on here than a one-night stand, feels it in his very bones, and his flesh as Hannibal pulls back to stroke his hands along his arms, chest, stomach, caresses that flutter and barely press in. The man hadn’t lied when he said he would take good care of Will; he is like an explorer, making his way along the expanse of Will’s skin in a journey of mutual discovery that leaves them both breathless. Will arches his back involuntarily, feeling his body react without his initial consent, too lost in the sensations of fingertips and tongue and Hannibal’s scruffy, stubbled jaw when he lowers his head to lap at a pink nipple. The nub hardens immediately, standing to attention, and is rewarded with another wet swipe. 

“Is this okay?” Hannibal asks, drawing back only slightly.

“It’s very okay,” Will nods.

That sinfully satin mouth returns to his skin, dipping between his pecs and then down, down, until Hannibal is moving bodily, large hands gripping a trim waist. Will’s brain melts to mush when the grip around him tightens, and then Hannibal’s lips are closing around his cock, through the thin fabric of his underwear, and all of the blood in his body makes a great effort at diverting there. Blushing, the young man moans loudly, toes curling at the edge of the bed as his body very nearly combusts.

“More,” Will groans the words. “Please.”

‘More’ is his underwear being shoved away unceremoniously, and then Hannibal is holding Will’s leaking cock in his hand, simply to steer the length into his mouth. If it wasn’t hard already, it would be now, and even then it grows heavier as blood fills the sensitive head where it’s tucked safely into the damp confines of Hannibal Lecter’s throat. The minutes fly passed Will as he lay there torn asunder by the steady sucking and licking being administered to his sensitive member. It’s an experience he thinks he’ll never forget, and one he knows can never be replaced. He digs his fingers into Hannibal hair and holds the older man’s head between his legs, wanting him simultaneously to stop and to never stop. Eventually, however, Hannibal pulls away, pink lips smacking as he sits up.

“Move this way,” he says hoarsely.

Will crawls to the head of the bed until he’s laying across it properly, sinking into the pillows there. The bedding remains where it is, but his underwear doesn’t, tugged impatiently off of his legs and tossed aside. Seconds later, Hannibal’s briefs join them, and then he’s kneeling above Will naked and glorious, cock jutting up towards his belly, the thatch of hair around it coarse. He’s bigger than Will, thicker and longer, and that realization suddenly invades Will’s arousal-fogged mind. 

“That’s not going to fit,” he states.

Hannibal’s brows raise to his hairline as he looks between Will’s wide blue eyes, and his own leaking, eager cock. A chuckle fills the air, and then Will’s lips are captured in another kiss, a hungry one that leaves him panting and almost mewling because Hannibal’s hands are everywhere at once, and their pelvises are pressed together tight. Will is overloaded on sensations, glutted with kisses and strokes and the wet glide of their cocks meeting. He’s sweating beneath this mysterious man, whose eyes look red in certain lighting, and whose strong hands treat him well.

“It will fit,” Hannibal says eventually. “And when it does, you’ll want nothing more than for it to never leave.”

“You sound so sure,” Will’s breath hitches on the last word, body jolting when Hannibal grips both of their lengths between their bodies and jerks them once, twice, one last time before he rolls away.

There’s a clacking sound, and then the man returns with a small jar of lube, apparently kept within a drawer at the bedside. He also has a condom, and he sets both aside for now to instead lap at Will’s nipples once more, nibbling at them both and paying each nub of nerves equal attention. He doesn’t stop until Will pushes him away with a moan that draws out into a whine at his over-sensitized flesh. He obeys after one more hard lick, and then climbs over Will’s body once more, pinning his wrists above his head and letting his considerable weight settle atop the smaller man. Normally, Will would have issue with such a thing, but Hannibal’s heaviness makes him feel safe instead of trapped, contained and warm and damp with sweat.

“I am certain,” Hannibal whispers into his ear.

Will believes the man this time.


	4. Delight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “On your belly,” Hannibal commands, and in his voice there is a hitch that Will clings to, enamored and amazed that he somehow has caused it.
> 
> He obeys swiftly, scrambling in the blankets to roll over and lay his cheek against one of the pillows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go :D Had a lovely time writing this ♥ AND HELL YAH SMUT.
> 
> Once more, dedicated to [Warpedchyld](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WarpedChyld/pseuds/WarpedChyld) ♥♥♥ I hope you enjoy this ;3
> 
> Not beta read!

“On your belly,” Hannibal commands, and in his voice there is a hitch that Will clings to, enamored and amazed that he somehow has caused it.

He obeys swiftly, scrambling in the blankets to roll over and lay his cheek against one of the pillows. He’s tense in this new position, knowing he is bare and more vulnerable than before, and it takes a lot for him to trust Hannibal enough to listen to his whispered words. Will glances over his shoulder to find said man’s eyes on his face already, silently asking for permission, and with a gulp of nerves, the young man nods.

The first touch is a gentle stroking of fingertips between his shoulderblades. The slight pressure comforts Will in a way that he can’t put sense to, so he stops thinking about it and enjoys it, follows it as Hannibal kneads both hands along his spine and then fans out to travel up to his shoulders. Leaning over him -Will can feel it- Hannibal then administers a massage there, and along his neck and upper arms, and Will cannot help the moan that breathes out of him and doesn’t stop for a long time. He’s transported to a place where only pleasure exists, as well as soft exhalations into a pillow’s pristine white case. Hannibal murmurs beneath his breath, words of reassurance and of awe while he works -Will is lulled, so much so that when one of the man’s hands dips southwards, he thinks nothing of it until tentative fingers are stroking along one of his asscheeks. Will flinches by habit, new to being touched there, at least like this, since his ass has been grabbed before at the club.

“Relax,” Hannibal urges, not letting up, his other hand following and cupping his other cheek as the man kneels behind him on his knees, straddling one of Will’s legs and trapping it within naked heat.

“Trying,” Will grunts. “What are you doing?”

“Taking care of you.”

Will’s ‘oh’ is swallowed before he can let it out, and he very nearly chokes when Hannibal spreads him wide, reveals his most private place to the air and to his hungry eyes. He can feel the gaze like a warm weight, shuts his eyes tight and holds his breath as he _waits_ , and then Hannibal is kissing him, kissing him _there_ , lips gently pressing to his fluttering entrance, the tight curl of muscle clenching in shock. Will almost shouts in his surprise, turns as much as he can to take in the sight of Hannibal leaning down with his mouth between firmly gripped cheeks, spreading him and partaking of him as if he were a lavish meal. He’s not certain which affects him more, the seeing or the feeling, and seconds later, it’s the feeling, because Hannibal’s tongue is dipping out, the tip laving almost tenderly around the rim of his entrance. The man traces the pink muscle, digs his thumbs suddenly inwards to open him more, and then the wet tongue is swirling around him, not inside yet, but Will is still beside himself at the sensation. No words exist in those moments that could adequately describe the damp heat, the exhales he can feel there at his vulnerable place. And then Hannibal is opening him yet wider, moving closer, pinning his lower body down to prevent movement as he plunges his tongue inside of Will.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Will gasps out loudly, body drawing tight as he fists the blankets and tries to pull away and push back at the same time.

It’s utterly foreign and _fuck_ it feels amazing. The wet muscle wiggles inside of him insistently, moving ever deeper, the onslaught merciless. Will loves it, loves this new feeling, he loves it so much that tears gather at the corners of his eyes and stain the pillowcase when he buries his face into it. It’s harder to breath this way and yet he doesn’t care; his world is breaking apart in the best of ways, and his cock is impossibly hard where it rubs into the bed beneath him, leaking tip kissing the fabric. Hannibal holds him in place and plunders him, opens him up inexorably.

“Hanni- oh god, Hannibal,” the young man lifts his head and feels his entire body attempt to jump, overloaded on the sensations behind him as his hole is soaked and prodded and stretched by the other man’s mouth and tongue.

When Hannibal does stop, when he pulls back, it’s with a lewd smacking sound, and then a chaste kiss right there where he’d just conquered Will into the mattress with only his mouth. 

“You are more beautiful than any meal I could prepare,” Hannibal says, the compliment almost lost in Will’s loud panting. “Come, on your side for me. It will be easier this way.”

“Yeah, sure, just give me a second.”

Will’s body feels like jello when he moves onto his side to flop down gracelessly. He’s so turned on that he whines when his cock bumps against his own stomach, and he reaches down to squeeze it a few times. Hannibal murmurs appreciatively, taking up the lube and condom, before spooning behind him to speckle kisses along his neck and shoulder. One arm moves under Will’s head to cushion him, and the other strokes down his body to grip the back of his thigh. Will moves the leg obediently when urged, spreads himself that way. 

“Tell me to stop if it hurts too much,” words whispered in his ear that he barely hears but Will is nodding anyway.

Hannibal has opened the lube already. Will can smell it in the air, something with an inexplicably earthy scent. The first finger that presses where Hannibal’s mouth has just explored is tentative. The tip wiggles around the rim much like the tongue did, before dipping inside with the aid of the lube, sinking only to the first knuckle. Will feels embarrassed that that simple thing has him veritably undone. He can’t help it, however. The intrusion is uncomfortable and yet beyond anything he has ever felt, the pressure inside of him searching.

“Breathe, Will.”

“It’s hard to.”

“You have to.”

So Will does, draws in a deep one, and that’s when Hannibal’s finger sinks further inside of him, the rest of the way even, until the man’s thick digit can curl in there. _So much for breathing_ , Will thinks before he loses himself. Hannibal holds him in place again the second Will moves, curling the arm beneath his head until it’s around the young man’s throat instead, a gentle trap that he uses to draw Will closer into the furry chest behind him. Another finger nudges into him, more lube pushed inside to help it along, and then they are both curling and scissoring to open him up. Will’s eyes are shut and he is overcome by the sensations assaulting him, but god does he think he loves Hannibal in that moment, an emotion that is fleeting and so incredibly fucking powerful. But he imagines he would love anyone who could make him feel this way, who could open him literally and figuratively, and who could treat him well, take good care of him.

“One more,” Hannibal whispers into his ear where his mouth is pressed tight, nose nuzzling into his hair. “You’re doing so well.”

“O-okay,” Will tries to steady his voice and gives up to whine pitifully instead.

The third finger takes its time, wriggling in to join the others. Will lifts his leg more, curls it against his body and wraps his own arm around it to hold himself wide. Hannibal spreads his fingers wide inside of him just then, fanning them out and opening him ever more, and then they’re just gone, slipped out and leaving him cold and empty. Jerking, Will attempts to turn and look at Hannibal, but the arm around him tightens, and then there’s a wide, thick _thing_ snug against his hole. Will doesn’t know when Hannibal managed to put the condom on, and he doesn’t care now, because the man has slathered his cock in lube and is now pressing the fat head into him. It’s slow, so slow, and the tip isn’t even inside of him yet and it’s too much. Will’s erection flags slightly, body taut and sweating and unsure now that the moment has arrived. Hannibal _has_ taken care of him, yes-

-but his cock is so big that Will is quite certain that it will split him in two.

“It won’t fit,” Will protests. “It’s too big.”

“Hush, sweet Will. It will fit.”

“No, it won- _oh fuck_!”

The head pops passed the ring of muscle, and it’s so obscene. It’s in there, however, and it heralds the beginning of a slow slide as the engorged length is fed into him. What seems like forever passes before Hannibal is seated deep inside, free hand coming around to press against Will’s belly now, holding the young man speared on his cock while he whispers nonsensical words into damp curls. Will clutches the hand at his stomach and holds Hannibal there just as Hannibal holds him in place, and for a very long time neither of them moves other than to breathe. When Hannibal moves, Will cries out loudly.

“Don’t try to be quiet,” are the last words Will hears before he becomes incoherent with pleasure.

Hannibal pulls out and then thrusts back in, all the while keeping his grip around Will’s throat and stomach firm and inescapable. The pace he sets isn’t too fast, but the young man is hiccuping around his gasps each time Hannibal sinks back home, the head of his cock rubbing against something that makes seeing more difficult than it already is. Will doesn’t remember where the fuck his glasses are -did Hannibal take them off before putting him onto the bed, or was that before, when he took his shirt off. Will has no clue because Hannibal is thrusting into him in a rhythm that quickly becomes maddening.

“Faster,” Will hisses. “Please, Hannibal.”

“And you told me it wouldn’t fit?”

The cheeky response makes Will growl, and Hannibal chuckles before obliging him. Their position is close and tight and the momentum behind Hannibal’s thrusts is slightly waylaid, but he gets the job done sufficiently, fucking into Will for several long moments that feel like hours, days, maybe years. The hand on his stomach strokes in tandem with the thrusts, until it moves further south to grasp Will’s cock in hand, the organ hard and angry and leaking once more. There are more tears on Will’s face and he rubs some of them into the arm trapping him, but then suddenly they are moving, and he’s back against the pillow again, partially on his front once more while Hannibal moves over him, bearing down and thrusting into him with a force that shakes the bed.

“ _Yes_ ,” Will nearly screams.

The new angle has Hannibal’s cock hitting that special spot again and again, a relentless attack coupled with the hand squeezing and fisting him in time. It’s the thumb pressing into the slit of his cock that has Will tipping over, however, and he yells in surprise when his orgasm takes him, muffles the sound into Hannibal arm and then bites down into the strong muscle instead. The man behind him grunts, and then follows him over the precipice of pleasure, coming when he’s planted deep inside and rocking their hips together for several minutes afterwards.

Will’s wits eventually return as his high fades, and he’s left feeling sweaty and overwhelmed and suddenly panicked. What happens now? He’s too worried to enjoy the afterglow just then, squirming underneath Hannibal, who is still inside of him.

“What’s wrong?” Hannibal asks hoarsely. 

Will doesn’t answer at all. He’s suddenly embarrassed, and he tries to dislodge the man wordlessly. Of course he’s unsuccessful; Hannibal senses his panic and bears him down into the mattress once more, wraps a leg around one of Will’s and traps him on the bed. The cock inside of him is soft but it’s still there, and for some reason that reminder calms Will enough, and he sighs loudly.

“I’m not sure what to do now,” he confesses. “I didn’t think about the after.”

“Nor did you have to. I expect nothing of you.”

Hannibal’s voice stirs the hair by Will’s ear, a welcomed gesture. Will shuts his eyes and feels his body relax. He’s tired now.

“You’re not going to let me leave,” he states instead of questions.

“If you really wish to, I will not hinder you,” Hannibal kisses the tip of his ear. “But I would prefer that you remain in my arms tonight, and that you join me for breakfast in the morning.”

Will smiles sleepily and falls asleep when the adrenaline peters out of his body almost faster than he can blink. Distantly, he thinks; _I knew it._ Hannibal remains inside of him until he's too soft to do so, but Will is out like a light before it can happen.

♥

The next time he dances, Hannibal is sitting up front. Will’s prop is a chair this time, and his outfit includes stockings, his favorite corset, and his claw-tipped gloves, along with a skimpy pair of leather panties that barely contain him. He’s filled with the secret confidence that dancing always offers him, but this time he can correlate that power to Hannibal, how the mysterious man made him and makes him feel.

In the club, he dances only for Hannibal now, because the the man has bought out the entire place. Will can’t complain.

**Author's Note:**

> Smut incoming tomorrow :D ♥


End file.
